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Another wave of applause that bigger this time, warmer, deeper. As Francesco stood and hold the Ballon d'Or that glowed under the lights like a small sun, like something that belonged in his hands.
The applause still echoed faintly in Francesco's ears as he stepped away from the podium, the Ballon d'Or tucked securely under his arm like an extension of himself that warm, heavy, strangely alive in the way symbols felt alive when they carried the weight of millions.
The press conference room was still buzzing behind him, journalists typing furiously, camera teams packing up, some still murmuring about his answers. But the moment he crossed the threshold and the door closed behind him, the noise softened into a distant hum, muffled like the outside world after a snowfall.
Leah stepped forward first.
And before he could even take another breath, she wrapped her arms around him that not tight, not desperate, but full. Whole. Proud. Her cheek pressed against his shoulder, her breath warm against the fabric of his tuxedo.
"You did so well," she whispered.
He smiled, his chin brushing the top of her head. "I survived."
"You did more than survive." She leaned back enough to meet his eyes. "You shined."
Mendes exhaled in a way that suggested finally as he, too, had been holding his breath through every question. He clapped a hand on Francesco's back.
"Now," Mendes said, switching fully back into manager mode, "the part players actually enjoy." He pointed down the hallway to where soft orchestral music drifted through like a beckoning. "Food. Drinks. Relaxation. The ballroom awaits."
Leah slipped her hand into Francesco's again, and together they followed Mendes down the carpeted corridor, leaving the intensity of cameras and microphones behind.
As they entered the ballroom, a different kind of atmosphere washed over them with warm golden lighting, soft jazz-like variations of classical melodies playing from a stage in the corner, waiters drifting around with trays of food and champagne flutes, round tables draped with immaculate white linen.
And everywhere, like everywhere are clusters of the biggest figures in world football mingled like it was a high school reunion but with Balenciaga suits and the occasional Champions League winning captain.
The moment Francesco crossed the threshold, heads turned.
First quietly.
Then in waves.
Eyes lit up.
Smiles grew.
People nudged the person beside them.
The Ballon d'Or caught the light with each step he took, glowing like a beacon.
Players began drifting toward him. Some quickly, some more slowly, as if unsure whether they were allowed to interrupt him, but the shared awe that floated through the room felt almost ceremonial.
A hand touched his arm gently.
He turned, it was Iniesta.
"Enhorabuena, chico," Iniesta said warmly, eyes soft, the very definition of humility and class. "You had a perfect season. Truly deserved."
Francesco swallowed, humbled. "Thank you. Coming from you… that means everything."
Iniesta squeezed his shoulder. "Keep your feet on the ground. And keep your heart in the game. If you do that, you'll go far."
Behind him, Sergio Ramos pointed toward Francesco with a grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Mira, mira, the man of the night!" Ramos shook his hand firmly. "Don't let this one get to your head. One trophy doesn't mean you can stop running."
"I won't," Francesco laughed.
He didn't have time to move before another voice came up behind him.
"Congratulations, kid."
He turned and it was Buffon.
The legend.
The goalkeeper he had posters of on his bedroom wall growing up.
"I watched your season," Buffon said, voice deep and sincere. "You play with joy. With that spark. Don't lose that. Football needs players like you."
Francesco could only nod, speech caught in his throat.
One by one, more players came:
• Griezmann
• Kroos
• Lewandowski
• Luka Modrić
• Neymar again, this time with an actual hug
• Dani Alves, shaking the trophy lightly like he was checking if it was real
• Even Gerard Piqué, who joked, "If you ever want to join Barcelona, call me."
Between each interaction, Leah stayed by his side and always present but never overshadowing, watching with soft pride, smiling politely whenever someone greeted her as well.
Finally, after maybe ten minutes of greeting, laughing, and shaking hands, Mendes guided them gently toward the Arsenal table.
"There," he said, pointing.
Arsène Wenger sat at a round table near the center of the ballroom, posture relaxed, hands folded gently as if he were sitting in the front row of a concert. Mesut Özil sat beside him, swirling a glass of water, eyes calm but sparkling with amusement as he watched Francesco approach. Sánchez, on the other side of Wenger, was mid conversation with a coach from Juventus, but stopped the moment he saw Francesco.
In one swift motion, Sánchez stood and threw his arms wide open.
"El campeón!" he yelled theatrically.
Francesco laughed as Sánchez enveloped him in a hug that bordered on bone crushing.
"Don't break him," Özil murmured dryly.
Sánchez ignored him. "You did it, hermano! You said you would win everything this year, and look!" He tapped the Ballon d'Or. "You did!"
Wenger rose next, slowly, with a smile that reached all the way to his eyes.
"Congratulations, Francesco." He extended a hand, but when Francesco tried to take it, Wenger pulled him into a gentle, heartfelt embrace instead. "I am very proud of you."
It hit harder than expected. Harder than anyone else's words could.
"Thank you, boss," Francesco murmured quietly.
When Wenger pulled back, Leah leaned forward with a polite smile. Wenger returned it with that fatherly warmth only he possessed.
"You must be very proud," Wenger said softly.
Leah nodded. "More than I can say."
They took their seats as Francesco placing the Ballon d'Or carefully on the table, right in the center, where it shimmered like a centerpiece designed by destiny.
"Alright," Sanchez said, rubbing his hands like he was starving. "Let's eat before someone steals it."
Francesco laughed. "You think anyone would dare?"
Sánchez pointed at Neymar across the room. "That one? He might."
Leah tugged on Francesco's sleeve. "Come on, let's get some food while they still have everything."
He nodded, and the two of them walked together toward the buffet lines. Along the way, he received more congratulations from coaches, players, ex-players, agents, and even the event staff, each one stopping him with genuine sincerity.
A few interactions lingered:
A young Ligue 1 player who looked barely nineteen and starstruck said, "You're my idol… I started playing striker because of you."
A Bundesliga manager clapped him on the back and said, "Tonight you showed the world the future. Don't ever let the pressure eat you."
A former Ballon d'Or winner, one he had grown up watching shook his hand with a firm nod. "Enjoy tonight. Tomorrow, work begins again."
Food in hand from roasted salmon, beef Wellington slices, truffle mashed potatoes, tiny savory pastries, chocolate-glazed cuts of fruit as he and Leah returned to the table. Mendes joined them shortly after with his own plate, though much smaller, likely out of habit.
The moment Francesco took his first bite, he realized how hungry he actually was.
Hours of interviews, pictures, speeches, nerves… and he had barely eaten all evening.
Sánchez watched him shovel food politely but quickly. "You see? Being famous makes you starving."
Ozïl raised an eyebrow. "He's always hungry."
Leah nudged Francesco lightly. "He is."
He grinned.
For a long while, they just… talked.
Not about media.
Not about pressure.
Not about expectations.
But football stories.
Training mishaps.
Dressing room jokes.
The time Mertesacker threatened to throw Giroud into the ice bath.
The time Sánchez brought four dogs to training because he didn't want to leave them alone.
The time Özil accidentally wore two different colored boots and didn't notice for half the session.
It felt normal.
Warm.
Almost like the night wasn't monumental, like the award wasn't sitting inches away.
Wenger listened more than he spoke, but every once in a while, he would add a comment that made everyone laugh with dry humor, unexpected but perfectly timed.
The trophy sat on the table, glowing under the chandeliers like it was joining in on the conversation.
Hours passed gently.
Eventually, as the room began to empty, the orchestra shifting to softer tones and some tables already being cleared, Francesco stood and stretched slightly.
Leah touched his arm, reading him instantly. "Ready?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
He turned to the others.
Sánchez stood immediately and pulled him into one last hug. "You earned tonight, hermano. Enjoy it with her," he said, nodding toward Leah, his tone softening in a way that surprised even Özil.
Özil shook his hand with that calm smile. "Rest well. Tomorrow everyone will want pictures with you at training."
Wenger rose again, slower this time. "Good night, Francesco. Congratulations, once more. And… well done."
"Thank you, boss."
Francesco carefully picked up the Ballon d'Or with both hands, its weight familiar now, comforting.
As they left the ballroom, he turned back one last time, giving a small wave.
Sánchez lifted his glass in salute.
Özil nodded with old-soul calm.
Wenger simply smiled.
Mendes guided them through the last hallway toward the exit where their limousine waited.
The corridor was quieter here, the sounds of the ballroom muffled, the night air leaking through the exit doors.
Leah walked a little closer, her hand brushing his free one.
"You okay?" she asked.
He nodded slowly, looking down at the trophy, then at her.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I'm… happy."
And he was.
Deeply. Quietly. Fully.
The limousine door opened.
Francesco helped Leah inside first, then slid in beside her, placing the Ballon d'Or gently on the seat between them like a newborn they were taking home for the first time.
As the door shut, sealing them in a cozy cocoon of dim lights and soft leather, the driver asked politely:
"To the hotel, Mr. Lee?"
Francesco exchanged a small glance with Leah.
"Yeah," he said, exhaling slowly. "Take us back."
Then after a while, they finally arrived back at their hotel.
The limousine rolled to a smooth stop beneath the soft golden lights of the hotel's entrance canopy, the kind that made even late-night arrivals feel cinematic. A doorman hurried forward, bowing slightly as he opened the door.
Francesco stepped out first, careful not to bump the Ballon d'Or against anything, though his grip had become more natural now as if he'd been carrying the award for years instead of a single night.
Leah followed, adjusting her dress with a soft exhale of relief hours in heels at a gala always looked glamorous from afar, but felt like survival once the adrenaline faded.
They both turned toward the driver.
"Thank you," Leah said warmly.
Francesco nodded. "Really, thank you for tonight."
The driver smiled. "Congratulations again, Mr. Lee. A historic moment."
Francesco returned the smile, feeling that small flicker of disbelief again… Was this really his life now? A kid who once had posters of legends on his wall, now walking into a Swiss luxury hotel carrying football's highest individual honor?
He and Leah walked through the lobby with a vast space of marble floors, soft white lamps, and the muted quiet of late-night travelers drifting through. A few people glanced their way, whispering subtly when they spotted the unmistakable golden sphere in his hands, but no one approached. Switzerland had that particular respectful etiquette.
They reached the elevator.
Leah pressed the button.
The doors slid open.
They stepped inside.
Francesco leaned back against the elevator wall, exhaling slowly. The silence felt thick in a good way, like the world had suddenly stopped spinning at its football frenzied pace.
"That was…" Leah began.
"Insane?" Francesco offered.
She laughed, soft but melodic. "Yeah. In the best way."
He looked down at her with the way the soft elevator light reflected in her eyes, the calm after the storm of flashing cameras and famous handshakes.
"I'm glad you were with me," he whispered.
She smiled, brushing her fingers lightly over his arm. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
The elevator chimed and the doors opened onto their floor quiet hallway, cream-colored carpets, framed minimalist artwork on the walls, that serene hotel stillness.
They walked to their room.
Francesco shifted the Ballon d'Or to one hand and fished for the keycard. Leah leaned close, pretending to inspect the award like a jeweler.
"Still real?" she teased.
He laughed. "Still heavy."
The lock flashed green.
They stepped inside.
The room greeted them with a soft amber glow from the lamps the hotel had thoughtfully left on. Large windows overlooked the dark curve of Lake Geneva, reflections of the city lights rippling across the water.
And finally, the door clicked shut behind them.
Just them.
No journalists.
No cameras.
No speeches.
No pressure.
Just the quiet of a hotel night in Switzerland.
Leah released a small groan, the kind that only came after hours of perfect posture. "Okay," she said, slipping off her heels with relief. "I'm going to shower first before I collapse."
"Go," Francesco chuckled. "You earned it more than me."
"Please," she shot back with a smile as she headed to the bathroom, "you carried that trophy through like thirty conversations. Your arms must be dead."
The bathroom door closed.
Francesco let out a long exhale and placed the Ballon d'Or gently on the bed right in the center, while Leah already put his young player award and Puskas award at the tabel. It looked almost surreal sitting on hotel sheets, like a priceless artifact placed in an ordinary room.
He stared at it for a moment.
Just stared.
All the noise, all the applause, all the faces congratulating him… it all felt distant now. But seeing the trophy alone here, in their private space, made it finally feel personal.
Real.
He pulled out his phone.
The screen lit up immediately with hundreds of notifications exploding in a constant stream. Mentions, tags, messages, WhatsApp groups, journalists, teammates, old coaches, youth teammates from when he was ten, even random friends who never texted him except during birthdays.
But he didn't open any of it.
Instead, he opened Instagram.
Time to post.
He scrolled to the photos the event's photographer had sent to him earlier as Mendes had made sure they arrived promptly after the ceremony. Francesco selected the first picture:
Him standing on stage, holding the Ballon d'Or with both hands under the spotlights, a soft grin on his face that wasn't posed and just raw happiness.
He adjusted the crop slightly and hit "Next."
Then he selected the second picture:
Him holding the Ballon d'Or while Leah stood beside him, beaming, holding his Young Player Award and the Puskás Award as both of them radiant under the golden lights.
He felt his chest warm just looking at it.
Next picture:
A candid shot of him with Wenger, Özil, and Sánchez at the gala as all of them laughing, the Ballon d'Or sitting on their table like an invited guest.
He smiled at that one. That table, those people… that's Arsenal.
Then finally, the last photo:
The Ballon d'Or placed in the center on a velvet stand, his Young Player Award on the left and his Puskás Award on the right with a perfect symmetrical display that looked like a museum exhibit.
He selected all of them for one carousel post.
Now the caption.
His fingers hovered for a moment.
It didn't need a speech. The night had already spoken for itself.
He typed:
"What a night!
So proud to be the winner of the 2016 Ballon d'Or!!!🔥🔥🔥"
Short, real, emotional.
He tagged:
• @francefootball
• Wenger's account
• Özil
• Sánchez
• The event organizers
• The photographer
• Even Leah, because she was in the second picture holding his awards with that bright, contagious smile.
He reread the caption. Simple and powerful.
Then hit Post.
A spinning wheel.
A moment of suspense.
Then uploaded.
Within seconds, the notifications exploded again.
He locked his phone and placed it face-down on the nightstand.
The bathroom was still humming with the sound of running water, soft and steady. Steam drifted faintly under the door.
Francesco walked toward the window with slow steps, letting the peaceful Swiss night settle around him.
The city felt serene from up here as the lights reflected on the lake, the faint hum of distant cars, the occasional gust of cold air against the glass.
Tonight had been loud.
This was the quiet after the storm.
He let it wash over him.
His body relaxed, his shoulders loosened, the tension slowly melting in a way that felt almost foreign.
He heard the water shut off.
A moment later, the bathroom door opened and Leah stepped out, wrapped in a soft hotel robe, her hair damp around her shoulders, the faint scent of lavender drifting with her.
She walked over to him, bare feet silent on the carpet.
"You posted?" she asked softly.
He nodded. "Yeah."
"How does it feel?"
Francesco turned, leaning his hip against the edge of the desk. The Ballon d'Or gleamed behind him under the warm room light.
"It feels…" He paused, searching for the right word. "Unbelievable."
Leah approached him slowly, lifting her hands to rest them lightly on his chest. "You deserve it," she said quietly. "Every part of it."
He slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. "Thank you for tonight."
She smiled. "Thank you for taking me with you."
"I wouldn't have gone without you."
Her cheeks warmed slightly. "Liar."
"I'm serious," he murmured.
For a moment, they stayed like that wrapped in each other's arms, the warmth between them anchoring the surreal weight of the evening.
Leah rested her head against him. "Go shower," she whispered. "You smell like a mix of expensive cologne and stress."
He laughed. "Alright, alright."
He kissed her forehead softly, grabbed his clothes, and headed into the bathroom.
The hot water hit him like a blessing with steam filling the glass, warmth loosening every tight muscle from the night. He let the water run over his hair, his face, his shoulders.
Images flashed in his mind with the rhythm of the drops:
The moment they said his name.
The crowd's reaction.
His speech.
The players congratulating him.
The way Wenger hugged him.
The way Leah looked at him on stage.
And the trophy that heavy, golden, glowing.
When he finished, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out.
Leah was sitting on the bed, legs curled under her, scrolling through her phone.
She glanced up as he entered, a slow smile rising. "You're everywhere," she said, showing him her screen as videos of him winning the Ballon d'Or already trending on Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, sports pages, news sites.
Francesco rubbed the towel through his hair. "It's crazy."
She laughed. "Crazy good."
He walked to the bed and sat beside her. The Ballon d'Or sat near the pillows, reflecting the lamplight.
Leah touched the trophy lightly with one finger. "Does it feel different now that you're alone with it?"
Francesco considered the question.
"Yeah," he said softly. "It feels… more real."
She shifted closer. "It's yours, Francesco. No committee, no crowd, no stage. Just you."
He swallowed, feeling that lump in his throat again that not sadness, not overwhelm, but that rare mix of gratitude and disbelief.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Just me."
"And me," she corrected gently.
He smiled. "And you."
The city lights glimmered through the window — quiet, steady, patient.
Leah rested her head on his shoulder.
"You know," she said softly, "tonight wasn't just history for football. It was history for you. Your journey. Your life."
He nodded slowly.
His life.
From youth academies to a prodigy.
From a young talent that breakthroughs to one of the best young players.
From being a best young player to becoming the best player in the world.
"Leah?" he murmured.
"Mm?"
"Thank you," he whispered. "For supporting me… through everything."
She looked up at him. "Always."
He placed a soft kiss on her temple.
Time moved differently in that room that unhurried, warm, intimate, wrapped in the afterglow of something extraordinary.
The night stretched on, but neither of them felt tired anymore.
Not yet.
The moment was too alive to sleep through.
Francesco reached over and picked up the Ballon d'Or again, setting it carefully on his lap. Leah watched him quietly, her eyes soft, the faintest smile touching her lips.
"Hold it," he said suddenly.
Her eyes widened. "What? No, no—"
"Yes," he insisted gently, lifting it toward her. "Hold it."
She hesitated, hands hovering before she finally accepted it from him, supporting it with both palms. The trophy was almost comically large against her smaller frame.
"Wow," she whispered. "It's heavier than I thought."
He leaned close, resting his forehead lightly against her cheek. "You carried me through the season," he murmured. "So carry this for a second."
Her breath trembled slightly with emotion.
She held the trophy like it was a piece of him, because in many ways.
They stayed like that for a while.
Just two people in a quiet Swiss hotel room.
One Ballon d'Or between them.
No crowd.
No noise.
No stage.
Just life.
Finally, Leah set the trophy back on the bed and curled into his side.
"Francesco?" she whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I'm proud of you."
He closed his eyes, a long exhale leaving him.
"That means everything," he whispered back.
Then Francesco didn't remember falling asleep.
He remembered the warmth of Leah's body tucked beside him, the soft hum of the city outside, the dim bedside lamp they forgot to switch off, the way his fingers had lingered around hers long after their breathing slowed. He remembered pulling the duvet over both of them, kissing her hair, and leaning back into the pillows with a heaviness that wasn't exhaustion but release.
But he didn't remember when the night dissolved into sleep.
What he did remember vividly, startlingly was the smell.
Warm.
Fresh.
Comforting.
Food.
There was a soft clatter somewhere near the TV, followed by the delicate sound of porcelain touching glass, the quiet shuffle of Leah moving around their hotel room.
Francesco blinked.
Once.
Twice.
He felt weight on his chest.
Heavy.
Warm from his body heat.
He glanced down…
And froze.
The Ballon d'Or was in his arms.
Literally cradled like a pillow.
He let out a stunned, half-amused breath. "No way…"
The trophy rested right against him, as if his sleeping self had refused to let it go. One hand lay over the curve of the golden sphere, fingers curled protectively. The sight was so unbelievably ridiculous that he just stared, unable to decide whether he should laugh or feel mildly embarrassed even though the only witness was Leah.
He turned his head slowly.
She was standing by the TV table wearing an oversized hotel robe tied loosely around her waist, her damp hair falling over one shoulder. She was pouring orange juice into two tall glasses, humming a faint melody under her breath with the kind of tune someone hums when they're simply happy.
She glanced over her shoulder at him.
Her smile bloomed instantly. "Morning, Ballon d'Or cuddler."
He groaned and put a hand over his face. "You saw that?"
"Oh, I saw everything," she said, walking toward him with a teasing grin. "You were clutching it all night. At one point you even pulled it closer when I shifted in my sleep."
He laughed helplessly. "I did not."
"You did." She tapped his knee with her foot. "Congratulations, you've become one of those people who literally sleeps with their trophies."
He sat up slowly, carefully moving the Ballon d'Or onto the bed between them. "In my defense," he muttered, rubbing his eyes, "it's my first night as the world's best player. I was probably afraid someone would steal it."
Leah placed her hands on her hips. "Yes, because clearly I invited burglars into our room while you snored."
He chuckled with a slow, sleepy, genuine laugh. "Good morning."
She leaned down and kissed him softly. "Good morning."
His eyes finally drifted toward the table.
Breakfast was laid out beautifully as the room service clearly hadn't held back. A spread of golden croissants, scrambled eggs, beef sausages, hash browns crisped to perfection, fresh fruit, pancakes with powdered sugar, a pot of steaming coffee, and two glasses of chilled orange juice.
The TV, perched right above the table, was already on some international sports recap playing on mute. The screen showed highlights from last night's ceremony with shots of him holding the Ballon d'Or, shaking hands, smiling, giving interviews.
He blinked at the sight.
Seeing himself on television while smiling beneath spotlights, trophy in hand made something deep in his chest tighten.
"Wow," he whispered.
Leah followed his gaze. "They've been running clips all morning."
Francesco swallowed lightly. "Already?"
"You're global news," she said, brushing his hair back affectionately. "Of course they are."
He shifted his legs, sliding out from under the duvet as the early sunlight flooded the room gently. Switzerland had that crisp clarity in the morning with clean light, clean air, clean quiet. The lake sparkled faintly through the window.
As he swung his feet onto the carpet, he felt… lighter.
Still surreal.
But lighter.
He stood, stretched, and felt a satisfying series of pops run through his back and shoulders.
Leah watched with a playful frown. "You slept like a corpse."
"With a trophy as a companion," he added.
"With your entire arm around it, Francesco. You know how I woke up? I rolled over and hit my face on a chunk of gold."
He winced. "Okay… I owe you an apology."
She laughed, brushing it off. "Come on, have breakfast before it gets cold."
He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped toward the table. But before he sat, he reached for his phone on the nightstand.
He wasn't prepared.
The screen lit up like a city at night.
Notifications.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
He blinked as Instagram alone showed 999k unread notifications. He hadn't even posted for a full eight hours.
"Whoa," he whispered.
"What?" Leah asked, pouring him coffee.
"Everything," he muttered. "Everyone's gone crazy."
He opened the app.
The post from last night with the carousel with his photos had exploded.
Millions of likes.
Comments pouring in like a waterfall.
He scrolled.
The first thing he noticed?
His teammates.
Alexis Sánchez had commented:
"EL MEJOR DEL MUNDO!!!! Proud of you hermano ❤️🔥🏆"
Then another comment from Sánchez:
"But if you don't score in training tomorrow, I'm keeping the trophy 😤😂"
Francesco laughed under his breath. "Of course."
Leah leaned over his shoulder, reading along.
Next comment:
Mesut Özil: "Sehr verdient. Congratulations my friend 🤝✨"
A calm, elegant comment, very Özil.
Then:
Petr Čech: "Incredible season. A special player."
Kanté:
"Congratulations brother 🙏🏽 Humble and brilliant, the best combination."
Even Héctor Bellerín had left a comment:
"Teach me how to win one 😭😭 Congrats my G ❤️"
Francesco grinned.
Scrolling down, he spotted:
Arsenal Official Account
"Our Golden Boy 💛 More than deserved."
Dozens of heart emojis.
Thousands of fans replying beneath it.
Right under that:
England National Team Official Account:
"WORLD. CLASS. 🏆🇬🇧"
Leah let out a soft exhale. "You're literally everywhere."
He turned the phone slightly. "Look at the fans…"
He scrolled further.
The fan comments were endless:
"MY GOAT 🐐🔥"
"THE KING OF LONDON 👑❤️"
"FIRST OF MANY BALLON D'ORS!!"
"CAN'T BELIEVE HE'S ONLY 18!!"
"HE'S HIM. JUST HIM."
"THIS IS ARSENAL ERA STARTING TODAY."
One fan wrote:
"As an Arsenal supporter for 28 years… I've never been this proud. Thank you, Francesco."
Another:
"From now on, he's Sir Francesco Lee to me."
He felt something swell in his chest with something warm, heavy, emotional.
He whispered, "This is crazy."
Leah placed a cup of coffee in front of him. "Eat. Then read."
"Yeah," he murmured, though his eyes were still glued to the screen.
He scrolled again.
Even rival players were commenting.
Harry Kane:
"Massive respect. Amazing achievement."
Marcus Rashford:
"Set the bar high for all of us 🙌🏽🔥"
David Beckham:
"What a night, what a talent."
Francesco blinked slowly. Beckham's comment hit unexpectedly hard.
He lifted his eyes and stared at the room at the silver breakfast trays, the soft steam rising from scrambled eggs, the sleepy Swiss morning, Leah moving gently through the room.
His life.
This was his life now.
"Breathe," Leah whispered, brushing her hand down his arm.
"I'm trying," he murmured, setting the phone down as the weight stirred in his chest.
She nudged him toward the chair. "Sit. Eat before you hyperventilate."
He chuckled and finally took a seat at the little table. The chair creaked softly. The pancakes smelled unreal. The coffee was warm in his palms.
Leah sat across from him, pulling her legs up onto the chair comfortably. "So… do you feel like the best player in the world yet?"
He took a bite of the croissant that warm, buttery, flaky.
"No," he said honestly, mouth still half full. "I feel like a kid who fell asleep holding a trophy."
She grinned. "That's because you are."
He shook his head in disbelief, rubbing his temple. "I still can't believe I slept with the Ballon d'Or."
"You didn't sleep with it," Leah corrected sweetly. "You cuddled it. You spooned it. At one point, I swear you whispered to it."
"I did not!"
"I'm pretty sure I heard you say 'mine.'"
He choked on his juice. "Leah!"
She laughed so hard she had to hold her stomach.
Francesco tried to glare, but he couldn't stop smiling.
He sat back slightly, letting the room settle around him with the food, the morning sun, the chaotic storm inside his phone.
"Last night was real, right?" he murmured.
She nodded softly. "Very real."
He exhaled long and slow.
The TV shifted to a live sports panel. Even muted, the captions were visible:
"THE NEW KING OF WORLD FOOTBALL?"
"FRANCESCO LEE WINS 2016 BALLON D'OR, YOUNGEST IN HISTORY."
"ARSENAL'S NEW ERA."
His throat tightened.
Leah watched him with soft, steady eyes. "How do you feel reading all of that?"
"I… don't know," he whispered. "Grateful. Proud. Terrified. Everything."
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand gently. "You earned every bit of it."
He swallowed. "It's just… surreal."
They ate like that for a while that quietly, comfortably, the kind of shared silence that wasn't empty but full.
Every now and then he grabbed his phone again, scrolling further down the comments.
His youth coach from the club left a long emotional message about how proud he was. Old school friends he hadn't spoken to in years congratulated him. Former players, pundits, legends with names he grew up watching on TV.
Everyone.
Even Thierry Henry himself had commented:
"Enjoy it. I'm proud of you. And keep going records exist to be broken."
Francesco froze.
Leah saw his face. "What? Who commented?"
He turned the screen toward her.
She gasped. "Thierry?"
He nodded, stunned. "Henry…"
A quiet moment passed.
Emotional.
Heavy.
Huge.
Leah whispered, "I think you need to frame that comment."
He laughed under his breath, running a shaky hand through his hair. "This is insane."
Breakfast stretched on.
And so did the comments.
Fan edits.
Fan videos.
Fan theories.
Articles.
Sports journalists writing think-pieces about the new era of football.
Clips of him receiving the trophy already passed 10 million views.
And every time he looked away, Leah's calm presence grounded him.
She refilled his coffee.
She stole one of his pancakes.
She squeezed his hand whenever he looked overwhelmed.
At some point, she leaned forward, studying his face gently.
"You look like someone who hasn't fully processed this yet."
He sighed. "I don't think I have."
She nudged his foot with hers. "That's okay. You have time."
He nodded, chewing slowly, staring out the window at the sun rising over Lake Geneva.
Last night had been the climax.
But this morning…
This morning felt like the beginning of the next chapter.
A quieter one.
A deeper one.
A more personal one.
A chapter where the world called him the best.
A chapter where he had to live up to it.
But for now?
For now, he sat across from the woman he loved, half-awake, eating scrambled eggs in a hotel robe with bed hair, the Ballon d'Or lying peacefully on the bed behind him like a golden pet he accidentally adopted overnight.
And for once, he allowed himself to simply breathe.
He picked up his phone again with slower this time, not to check the notifications but to open his camera.
Leah raised a brow. "What are you doing?"
He angled the camera toward her. "Taking a picture."
"Of me?" She laughed. "Why?"
He took the photo anyway with Leah sitting at the breakfast table, mug in hand, hair messy, wearing the robe, smiling at him with no makeup, no lights, no stage.
"Because," he murmured softly, "this is the best part of the night after."
She rolled her eyes and blushed. "You're impossible."
Francesco took another sip of his coffee, letting the warmth settle down his throat, easing him further into the morning. The breakfast table was already halfway conquered: hash browns slowly disappearing, scrambled eggs nearly gone, a pile of flaky croissant crumbs collecting by his plate. Leah was finishing off her fruit bowl, stabbing a strawberry with lazy morning satisfaction.
The TV in front of them flickered as the sports recap ended and switched channels automatically straight to Sky Sports News HQ, the familiar bright-yellow graphics washing the room in a soft glow.
The audio was still muted, but the banner caught both their attention:
"SKY SPORTS SPECIAL: BALLON D'OR REACTION WITH GARY NEVILLE, JAMIE CARRAGHER, IAN WRIGHT & SPECIAL GUEST THIERRY HENRY."
Leah's eyes widened. "They're already doing a panel on you?"
He shrugged, though a small, nervous amusement tugged at his lips. "Guess so."
She reached for the remote, clicked the volume button, and the voices instantly filled the quiet room.
"…I mean, you can't not talk about it," Gary Neville was saying, leaning back in his studio chair with his typical half critical, half impressed posture. "An eighteen year old lad winning a Ballon d'Or as this is unheard of. Absolutely unheard of."
Jamie Carragher jumped in, hands flying dramatically the way he always did when excited. "It's not just the age, Gary. It's the season he had. Premier League top scorer, Champions League inhuman run, Puskás winner, Arsenal's best campaign in over a decade. It's not hype, it's substance."
Ian Wright laughed, thumping the desk once. "You're all talking like proud uncles here. And I'm allowed, I am a proud uncle. I've said since last year: the kid's different. His mentality? Different. His finishing? Different. His calmness? Different. The moment I saw him walk in at Colney, I knew Arsenal had something special."
Leah smiled warmly and leaned her chin in her hand. "Your boys."
"My boys?" he chuckled.
"Yes," she teased. "Your uncles."
He shook his head in disbelief, but her laughter melted into his chest like warm sunlight.
Then the camera cut to Thierry Henry.
Sitting calmly.
Elegantly.
Commandingly.
Like he always belonged there.
The studio lights didn't overpower him and if anything, they made him look more like the legend he was. And next to him, on a pedestal behind the desk, the Sky producers had placed a replica Ballon d'Or, almost as if acknowledging the symbolic passing of eras.
Thierry folded his hands together. "For me… this is emotional."
Ian Wright touched his arm. "Tell us, T."
Thierry inhaled slowly. "I've been watching him. Quietly. Every match, every goal. I've said nothing publicly because I wanted him to grow without hearing my shadow behind him."
The other pundits nodded.
Thierry continued, eyes softening in a way Francesco had never seen on TV before. "But last night? When that boy lifted the Ballon d'Or… I felt something I have not felt since Arsenal left Highbury." He tapped his chest lightly. "A spark."
Leah gasped softly. Francesco froze.
Thierry leaned forward slightly. "I was called the King of Highbury. It was not a title I asked for, it was something the fans gave me. A symbol. A love. A home."
Gary Neville jumped in, smiling. "And a well deserved title, by the way."
Henry returned the smile politely before continuing. "When Arsenal moved to the Emirates, we needed someone to make it a home. A fortress. A place where fans feel the magic again."
He paused.
Then spoke with a conviction that sent electricity through the entire room.
"And we found him."
The studio fell silent.
Even through the TV, through the morning calm, through the smell of pancakes and coffee, his words felt like they echoed right into the hotel room.
Thierry's tone softened, but the emotion behind it strengthened. "Francesco Lee is the King of the Emirates. That stadium sings when he plays. It fears nothing when he is on the pitch. He brought it identity. Passion. Fire."
Leah's breath hitched quietly. "Francesco…"
But he couldn't answer.
His heart was pounding too loudly.
Thierry wasn't finished.
"In the last two seasons, Arsenal have beaten every London club. Not just beaten as they dominated. Spurs, Chelsea, West Ham, Crystal Palace, Fulham from every derby, every confrontation, he rose above the noise. That is not normal for someone his age."
His eyes sharpened.
"That is leadership."
Carragher nodded. "He's right. The kid is rewriting expectations."
"I'll tell you something else," Henry continued. "London has had many kings. In football, it shifts. It changes. But right now?" He tapped the desk. "Right now, there is one young man who is the King of London."
Neville chuckled. "You're going to make the Chelsea and Spurs fans angry, Thierry."
Thierry shrugged, unbothered. "They can be angry. They can argue. But the pitch does not lie."
Wright burst out laughing, clapping his hands in excitement. "TELL THEM AGAIN!"
Henry's expression didn't change that calm, firm, sincere.
"Francesco is the King of the Emirates. And if he stays on this path, he will become the King of London."
For a moment, Francesco felt the world tilt slightly not in dizziness, but in disbelief.
Leah reached across the table and took his hand gently, her thumb brushing the back of his knuckles. "Baby…" she whispered.
He swallowed hard.
Harder than he expected.
Thierry Henry's voice, one he'd grown up listening to, one from highlight videos and childhood posters and YouTube compilations was now calling him the King of the Emirates.
It didn't feel real.
None of it felt real.
He blinked several times, trying to ground himself.
But Thierry wasn't done.
He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. "What impressed me most, though? It was not the awards. Not the goals. Not the headlines."
Neville asked, "Then what?"
"The way he carried himself last night." Henry nodded once, decisively. "He did not behave like a star. He behaved like a man who understands respect. A man who understands gratitude. He thanked Wenger. He thanked his teammates. He thanked the staff. He thanked Arsenal."
Wright placed a hand over his heart dramatically. "I might start crying on live television."
Carragher laughed. "You always cry."
"No, no," Wright defended himself, "it's emotional! I've been waiting for Arsenal to have a kid like this again."
Neville leaned forward toward Thierry. "So what do you think happens next for him? More pressure? More expectation?"
Thierry's answer was immediate.
"Yes. Of course. That is the price of greatness. But he has already shown he can handle it. I have no doubt he will."
Then Thierry looked straight into the camera.
Straight into the lens.
Straight into the world.
It felt, absurdly, like he was looking into Francesco's soul through the screen.
"If you are watching this," Henry said slowly, "just know… we are proud of you. And Arsenal is proud of you. The story is only beginning."
Leah felt her breath catch.
Francesco felt heat behind his eyes, the kind that stung quietly, deeply.
Thierry leaned back, smiling faintly. "And from one King to another… enjoy this moment."
The studio burst into applause that genuine, not staged.
Wright was the loudest.
Carragher nodded repeatedly, impressed.
Neville smiled in a way that meant even he couldn't hide admiration.
Leah finally exhaled, long and soft, like she'd been holding in her breath for an entire minute. "Francesco… wow."
He didn't answer right away.
He couldn't.
His throat was too tight.
So he simply closed his eyes for a second, absorbing the words, the weight, the meaning. When he finally opened them, the world looked slightly blurred, as if the room's warmth had softened everything.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 21
Goal: 30
Assist: 0
MOTM: 5
POTM: 1
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9